Setting Sail
by Molly Raesly
Summary: A Jily Pirate AU. "He didn't order rum. Not this time and not in a long while. But he wanted to. He wanted to very much."


_A/N: It's been a while, I realize. And I really wasn't going to write any more. I have been quite busy with life and squeezing in time to bemoan the fact that I don't have the time or energy to write original stuff as much as I would like. But I decided to do this for the February Jily Challenge._

 _It has been a difficult few months - for us all, I suspect - and I wanted to do something to give back to the community that has always been so generous to me whenever I was struggling._

 _I think this will likely remain a one-shot, but there have been some ideas percolating that might come to the surface if given proper encouragement. I'd like to dedicate this to petalstofish, who I've had the pleasure of talking to for the past few weeks. I've recently become more aware of the incredibly vibrant Jily fan fiction writer base on Tumblr and encourage you all to check it out, as well. And without any further ado..._

 **Setting Sail**

 **by Molly Raesly**

He didn't order rum. Not this time and not in a long while. But he wanted to. He wanted to very much.

He wanted to get right drunk. He wanted to be sloppy and slurring and staggering and to have to be dragged out of the pub and into bed. He wanted to have hazy rum dreams and wake up late the next morning still in a daze. He wanted to skip roll call and stay all day tucked under his covers. He wanted to cure his hangover with more rum and then repeat the process all over again.

"Cheers, mate," he thanked the barkeep when the tall man with a graying beard slid him a pint of ale. With keen precision, he tossed a silver coin to the man, who caught it deftly and pocketed it with a nod.

It had been years since he'd been properly rum drunk. He barely drank now. Not when there was work to do and offices to maintain.

He did his best not to grimace at the weakness of the flavor when he took his first long swig. It tasted just as it looked: like piss.

But piss-tasting ale was what he had signed on for. Well, not exactly.

He hadn't known at the time that the ale would always taste like piss, and rum would no longer be allowed. He hadn't known how lonely he'd get and how stir-crazy so much time spent on land would make him feel. He hadn't known she'd be miles and miles away and that they wouldn't be able to write—not even in code. He hadn't known a lot about what he'd agreed to back then. He'd just known there was no choice but to agree—not for him.

And not for her either. But he had known that, at least.

He set his pint down and gazed at his uniform and its shiny gold buttons and stiff collar. He longed to free himself from the starchy prison of his clothing almost as much as he desired to run his fingers through his short hair again. But his messy haircut had long been replaced by a neat ponytail—fitting of his station as a cartographer in Her Majesty's Navy.

His hair, like the rest of his life, was regimented. He woke up every morning with the dawn. He ate a balanced breakfast and dressed neatly in his required attire. He was always at least five minutes early to his post. He saluted and addressed his superiors as "sir." He read his maps. He ate lunch with those in his station. He went back to his post and read more maps. He went home for the night, except on Tuesdays, when he went to the pub first to drink piss-tasting ale. He carefully took off his uniform so as not to damage the creases and folds. He ate dinner alone. He went to sleep. If he was lucky, he didn't dream. If he was really lucky, he dreamt of red hair and redder lips.

He fought the urge to groan. Circe, he would have liked some rum.

Fiddling with the gold compass in his pocket, he glanced around at the other drinkers in the pub. Mostly middle-aged men thick around the belly and all tired from the tedium of a day of unfulfilling work. It was pretty standard for a night in Godric's Hollow. He recognized every face he saw. That was good. It made his job easier.

He thought about leaving this pub and his half-full ale to go to a real pub—a place with strangers and music and the opportunity for mischief. He even thought about going back to his post to peruse some more maps before his exhausted eyes failed him or his candle burnt out. But instead he took another swill of his ale, winced, and bit his lip to keep the liquid down. He only needed to stay a little longer.

The barkeep returned after about ten minutes. "Anything else for you, Lieutenant?"

He shook his head. "Headed home for the night."

The barkeep nodded and took the extra silver coin offered as tip.

"See you next week," he said as he left his stool and headed for the door. He pulled at his navy coat's lapels and braced himself for the windy chill of the night air. It was only when he had made it back to his small abode and locked every door that he reached for the scroll the barkeep had slipped into his coat pocket.

It was sealed as expected: purple wax and a phoenix insignia. But the content of the scroll was not what he expected at all, and his curiosity piqued when he spotted the emerald ink etched in scrawled letters:

 _Dear Lieutenant,_

 _Our old friend has gone on a trip. He's lost one of his socks. The Old Man sends his love, but he won't be able to write for some time. He'll be busy looking for an answer to his riddle._

 _He knows you are fond of the sea. He's left a gift for you where the students disappear each year._

 _He worries you might be lonely without him. Perhaps you should get some familiar faces together to keep you company._

 _Her Majesty's Navy is known for its skilled and brave men. It is a testament to their training that they can endure even while losing a member._

 _Yours,_

 _The Cat Lady_

He read the scroll four of five times carefully, and each time his grin widened. When he was satisfied, he burned the parchment, grabbed his coat, and was out the door.

London was first. He found Padfoot in a tattoo parlor drawing ink on his own arm. He fought the urge to roll his eyes at this, and his fingers found the gold compass in his pocket that he often fiddled with, more as an unconscious habit than anything else in the past few years, as he had had no use for such a fine instrument on land. He released it and then used the same hand to grab Padfoot by the scruff of the neck.

"You, scalawag, I'd like a private word to discuss an important matter. I am with Her Majesty the Queen's Navy. It seems you have not paid your taxes for many years. I've been charged with coming to collect."

"Am I in trouble, sir?" Padfoot asked, smirking.

He sighed in mock solemnity. "I dare say so, young man."

Padfoot sighed too. His gray eyes glinted. "What a pity. I do hate trouble."

When they were alone, he quickly told him in hushed tones about the Cat Lady's note and the Old Man's request.

Padfoot was all curses and wolfish grins.

"We can finally get the Phoenix crew back together," he whispered. "It's time at last."

"Thank the stars. I couldn't take this excuse for laying low anymore. Your hair makes you look like a right pillock by the way, Lieutenant."

He ignored his friend's attempt at a salute and pulled him into a fierce embrace. "I have missed you, brother."

"Aye," Padfoot agreed. "More than you know." Padfoot rolled up his sleeves to reveal the many paw prints, ship's anchors, and scantily clad women on his ink-covered forearms. "So who do we find next?"

Moony was working as a carpenter in Leeds. When he saw the two men as they approached, he excused himself from his master. "Afternoon, Lieutenant," Moony greeted the taller of the two men with a soft voice.

"Good day, gentlemen."

"I hope you're carrying him off to justice, Lieutenant," Moony said with a wry look in Padfoot's direction. "Doesn't look right in the head, that one."

"Oi!"

"Aye, keen eye you have there, sir. Might I borrow your assistance for a moment?"

Moony pushed the hair away from his face.

He exchanged words with his master and followed the two men into an alleyway. The long scars on his face were barely visible as his lips betrayed a sly smile. His hair had grown shaggy; it nearly covered his eyes entirely. "I was worried I'd have to build a ship of my own before you came."

Padfoot smirked. "Well at least you'll be more useful now than you were before."

"I was plenty useful before," Moony retorted. "No one knows the pulling of the tide like me. Saved your life more than half a dozen times, might I remind you." Moony rubbed his hands together. "Who else do we have to get?"

"Everyone."

Moony smiled. "Yes, that will do nicely."

They found Wormtail working in a bakery in Birmingham kneading dough and baking bread. He snuck a few rolls on his way out the door. Next was Hestia Jones and then the Prewett twins in Bristol. They came easily; she gave Sirius a nice slap first. Meadowes in Liverpool and Fenwick followed soon after in Yorkshire. Vance, Longbottom, and McKinnon in Cardiff made an even dozen.

But there was still one more, and he would not leave without her.

"Thirteen's unlucky," Padfoot told him.

He laughed. "I'll take my chances."

"She might not want to see you. Not after the goodbye you two had."

He only laughed again. "I'll take my chances."

He knew he would find her at the Port of Spinner's End. He knew exactly what pub she worked in. When nights were cold, and he really, really wanted some rum, sometimes he would spend hours fiddling with the gold compass in his pocket and staring at where she would be on one of his maps and trying to guess her exact location.

He could hear the crowd within the closest he came to the door. Singing and arguing and laughing. The smell of warm meat and drink overwhelmed him as he swung open the entrance door. Even before his first foot had set on the dirty floor, his eyes found her behind the bar. A drumming began in his heart. He thought that perhaps it had forgotten this particular rhythm after years of piss-ale and cold map rooms, but his heart thumped just as eagerly as it had the first time he met her.

Given all the practice and energy he had put into remembering her over the last few years, it seemed unfair that his mind could never imagine her quite as lovely as she was standing a mere thirty feet away from him. Not the curve of her chin nor the exact color of her eyes. The fullness of her lips nor the shine of her red hair. The shape of her body was different now that she was no longer seventeen. He would need to work to commit this new image to memory. But there was time for that.

"Oi, Red!" he called out to her—quite unable to hide the smugness in his voice—because there she was and he finally had set eyes on her again. "Can I get a pint of rum?"

Almost as soon as the words had left his mouth, he found himself stuck against the door with a large _thwack_. He looked over his right shoulder to see a knife buried through his coat. The handle was still wobbling slightly. He whistled lowly and moved to remove the blade from his regimented Navy attire. It was difficult to hide the grin forming on his lips when he recognized the familiar floral pattern of petunias on the hilt of the blade. Straightening out his lapels, he moved toward the bar to give her back her knife.

A long-haired customer shook his head with wide eyes as he approached. "I don't know if I'd get any closer, mate," he said through a sip of his pint. "Seems to me that she hates you."

He stopped only a few feet away from the bar. He was close enough to see the whites of her eyes—killing range for those with worse aim.

"Nah," he said breezily, cocking his head to the side to really look at her. "She doesn't."

He watched, heart in his throat, as she pulled more knives out of her fiery hair and glared at him with the fierceness of a lioness. Her cheeks were pink, and her chest was not quite heaving. But he would not have minded the view if it had been. Her green eyes seemed to spark with emerald fire. Circe, she was a magnificent creature—more beautiful than the sirens and mermaids men told tales about. Standing before her now, it was hard to remember why in the world he would ever have agreed to anything that kept him away from her. He tried as best as he could to tell her with his eyes that he was an idiot. That he was sorry. That he still thought of her in every breath he took.

But mostly, he just wanted to hear her voice again.

"Nah," she spoke finally. Her voice was not as loud as his but quite firm. "I don't."

The remained still for at least a minute engaged in a staring contest that both refused to lose merely because the other was the opponent.

At last, never breaking eye contact, she smirked and relaxed her throwing knives. "We don't get a lot of customers in here like you, Lieutenant. No one else quite so upright and law-abiding."

He grinned. "Yes, I am a picture of civility. So much so that I've actually been promoted recently, Red."

"Oh?" she said with a perfectly arched eyebrow. "To what, may I ask? Her Majesty's Royal Dog Washer?"

"That was the year before."

"Hope you kept the dogs clean."

"Heard no complaints."

"Well, they're just dogs. Don't know much about taste, do they?"

"Not nearly as much as you, I'm sure. You've always had such an excellent eye for cutlery."

"Well, manners matter."

"But don't you like it when they don't?"

"Only with the right company," she checked.

"Have you found any of the right sort recently?"

"Meet a lot of people working in a pub."

"Not anyone quite like who's here tonight," he teased.

She seethed. "So a promotion? Do you get a new coat then?"

"If my new First Mate is in the mood for stitching," he replied, a glint in his eye behind his cartographer's spectacles.

Her breath caught in her throat—her witty response forgotten. "Oh," she replied. Her smirk flickered and then became a genuine smile. "I see." Her emerald eyes glowed in the dark pub. It was difficult not to get lost in them, for they reminded him too much of the sea at night. Of her gazing up at the stars as the ship rocked back and forth and him gazing at her and wondering why anyone looked at anything else.

"Yes," was his response. He was enjoying this too much, but he could not find it in himself to care. He would gladly dance with her like this for the rest of time.

"And you came all this way just to tell me about this promotion? I do receive letters, you know. Post man comes every day."

His heart ached, and he could see the pain on her own face beneath the bravado of her teasing. If only life had been so simple, and a letter in the post every day had been an option for them. But here was their chance to fix things.

"I came all this way to ask you to come along," he told her, though they both knew it was the case. But he didn't mind having to say it.

She inspected her steely knives with a passive expression on her face.

He rolled his eyes. She could be so bloody difficult. Circe, he had missed her. "We need you."

She shrugged.

"I need you."

There was less indifference in her teasing now, but it was still there as she toyed with her knives.

"I missed you."

She harrumphed. After a moment, she looked up at him, and her eyes were glossy wet. But her lips were firm and frowning.

He strode over to the bar and stilled her wrists. "Lily," he whispered. Tentatively, he reached out to brush a finger along a tendril of her red hair near her eyes. "Come with me." He grinned. "We both know you want to. I know you missed me too."

She narrowed her eyes dangerously. "There'll be pay?" she asked.

He laughed. "Aye, there'll be pay."

She nodded curtly, and within a blink of an eye up went the knives back into her hair, as well as the one he'd so rudely taken from her by showing up and needing a knife thrown at him. "All right then." She was in front of the bar and steps beyond him within seconds. She turned around with a smirk and shouted to the man still situated behind the bar. "Tom, I quit!"

It took about two weeks to gather all the supplies they needed. They found the Phoenix where the Cat Lady had told him to look at the Port of Kings' Cross—almost hidden from the naked eye. The rest of the crew scrambled aboard with the supplies, taking care of business as though almost no time had passed and falling into their old roles with practiced ease. Evans to the armory, Wormtail to the kitchen, and Moony to the sails. Madowes and Fenwick to stock the cabins, and Jones and the twins to sort out the cannons. Vance got the medicines ready, while Longbottom and McKinnon dealt with the remaining weapons and supplies.

Padfoot would have been helping them, but he was First Mate now and barking out directions mixed with jokes and insults. He chuckled thinking what the Cat Lady would think of her replacement. Circe, her lips likely would have grown so thin as to be invisible. He could not wait to take the mickey out of her.

First, though, he'd need to do the task the Old Man had assigned him. When the Captain had found him, he'd just been a boy of eleven with nothing to his name other than the clothes on his back and his shaking bones. Riddle had killed his family, and he didn't have anyone in the world. The Old Man had taken him aboard and given him a bed, some food, and a red and gold cloak to keep him warm. He'd given him a home and a family—Padfoot next and then all the rest. They'd just been watching and learning then, but soon they'd been able to do everything themselves.

He remembered the tears the day the Old Man told them his master plan to finally put the worst pirate that had ever stormed the seas to bed. No one had wanted to agree, but no one could say 'no' after all the Old Man had done for them. And after all that Riddle had done to them and to countless others across the world.

He remembered when the Old Man had taken him by the shoulder and whispered in his ear. "They'll come a time, James, when I'll call you back. You'll find the ship and set sail again. I'm going to need you to be their Captain then."

"But you're the Captain," he had replied simply.

"I can't be forever."

"How will I know what to do? I've never been a captain before."

"I've taught you all these years, and I've trained you to be better than I ever was. I think you know the ship better than I do some days. You'll be ready."

Still seeing trepidation in the young man's eyes, he smiled warmly. "Don't worry, James. When you have people you love counting on you, you always find the right course," the Old Man had whispered, his eyes twinkling.

He boarded leisurely, listening to the sound of the gulls and his heavy boots each time they took a step forward. The hem of his scarlet and gold coat kissed the deck as his fingertips brushed the rails. Gone were his Navy uniform, the spectacles, and that ridiculous ponytail. The salt-soaked breeze rumpled his messy hair and filled his lungs. He breathed in deeply and felt a stirring inside his soul. It had been too long.

"Moony! Get those sails up! I want to be on the sea within an hour!" he bellowed to his sandy-haired friend. "Wormtail, make sure the kitchens are stocked. We don't know how long it will be before we see land again, and I still haven't had my rum!" He climbed toward the helm. "Padfoot, go check on the cannons! We're headed for a fight!"

He watched with pride as his crew scattered around and made quick work of their assigned tasks. Once at the helm, he reached into his coat and took out the map he had stolen from Her Majesty's Navy—one of several actually. Studying the lines and figures, he took note of the wind and the sway of the water.

Checking on the sails to see signs of progress, he caught the eye of Evans below—her red hair swept back underneath her brown pirate hat. She looked up to smirk at him, and he doubted he had ever seen her look lovelier.

"Oi, Potter!" she called and hurled something in his direction. He caught it easily. "You're going to need that."

He could have sworn the golden compass had been in his pocket not ten minutes before.

He grinned back at her, knowing that there would be time enough for that to play out. For now, he took the helm in his hands and gazed out over the horizon. The sun was just beginning to rise.

He did not know how far they would sail or whether they would win. He didn't know if the battle would be fierce or if the maps would be enough. But the Old Man trusted him, and he had his crew. And people—people he loved—were counting on them.

And so they would sail.

 _A/N:_

 _Love,_

 _Molly_


End file.
